


NYE 2013

by pollyrepeat



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollyrepeat/pseuds/pollyrepeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ringing in the new year together. Actual bell ringing. Sort of the new year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NYE 2013

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff! Fluffity fluff fluff.

As it turns out, the tops of bell towers tend to be bitterly cold and drafty once the temperature dips below -10F, but their mission benefits as lookout points outweigh the personal drawbacks of having to learn how to type wearing mittens. Skye is pretty convinced she will never be able to fully feel her toes again, although that might be better than the bitter ache that settled into her bones about an hour ago.

“We need better winter gear,” she says, into the open comm-line. Ward does not heave a huge, long-suffering sigh, but his silence gives the impression that he would totally have done so if he didn’t value professionalism quite so much.

Fitz pauses in his robot-tinkering just long enough to scrape his gloved finger across the frost covering the giant metal bell, adding another ticky mark to the five that are already there. “Ugh,” says Skye. It’s too cold to roll her eyes. Her eyeballs are cold. They might freeze in position.

“I’m just saying,” says Fitz. “Saying something six times in a row doesn’t change anything.”

“I want you to repeat that back and see if you can spot any advice for yourself in it,” says Skye.

“ _You_ .. repeat that back,” says Fitz, apparently lacking the mental energy to deliver a better comeback.

“Is it time to switch yet?” Skye says. “I think it’s time to switch.”

From inside the church, tucked out of sight with the single, precious space heater, Jemma ( _Jemma_ , Skye thinks, savouring the leftover giddiness of being permitted the first name) says, “How about not.”

“Would you look at the time,” Fitz says, cheering up immediately. “Simmons, I do believe it’s your turn to come up here and freeze your face off.”

“Please conduct all cold-weather chatter _off_ the main comm-line unless you’re in imminent danger of death,” Coulson breaks in, sounding sunny and cheerful and definitely irritated. 

“This is mission-related chatter,” Skye says. “Your awesome tech and science support is working out the logistics of rotating shifts, as planned.”

Coulson actually does heave a sigh, presumably because nothing could tarnish his image at this point, least of all an admittedly well-deserved expression of exasperation. “One more hour,” he says. “Just one. After that we wrap it up and head in.”

“ _Awesome_ ,” Skye says, fervent, and Fitz scrambles to his feet and sweeps all his wiring and pliers into a bag before heading down the ladder at speed, off to kick Jemma out of the warmth and up to Skye.

Her hat breaches the entryway first -- a ridiculous blue thing with a bobble and furry earflaps, like someone skinned a muppet and jammed the results on Jemma’s head -- and then her face, cheeks pink and flushed from sitting right in front of a heater for the last thirty minutes. Skye imagines that she can feel the last of that warmth dissipating out into the frigid dark of the tower, creeping in under Skye’s collar and past the edges of her mittens to warm her fingers.

She puts her laptop down and inches forward on the floor, reaching out her hands to help pull Jemma up into the room. The massive puffy bubble of Jemma’s coat brushes against the sides of the floor as Skye tugs her upwards; Skye had laughed and laughed and laughed when she first saw it, pulled from storage and expanding to its full and glorious size once freed from the confines of a vacuum-sealed bag. All of Jemma’s winter gear seems out of character for her usual fashion sense: bulky and garish, with no subtlety or sign of an ability to match colours at all, but Skye’s nice wool coat does not seem nearly so warm in comparison, now, and so she is jealous of Jemma, wrapped up nice and cosy inside the coat monster, and of the coat monster, wrapped up nice and cosy around Jemma.

Skye clicks off her mic, braving the elements and yanking off one mitten to do so, and says, “I’m going to strip all this stuff off you, piece by piece.” The thought is a deliciously hot and squirmy one, and Skye holds it tight and thinks, _Warm, warm, I am getting very warm_ at herself while she clicks her mic back on.

Jemma sends Skye a smile, equally hot and searingly friendly, and helps her work her glove back onto her hand.

Skye almost feels warmer already.

“Bell tower, we’re going to need you to create a distraction,” May says. Her tone of voice says that Jemma’s mic picked up nearly everything. Whoops.

“What kind of distraction?” Skye asks, squinting down at her laptop and cycling back through the security camera feeds. Nothing, nothing, nothing, whoa, mean-looking goon squad, nothing. “Are they heading your way?” No need to clarify who _they_ was -- Team Alpha was hanging out in trees mere feet away from said goon squad; they’d have seen ‘em.

“Come on, ring those bells,” Coulson says, and Jemma and Skye both turn to look at the bell, enormous and silent in the gloom, and then at the rope, hacked short and definitely not accessible from down below in the easily-escaped sanctity of the church.

“Oh, boy,” says Jemma, already gathering up the bulky mass of Skye’s ruggedized laptop and shoving it into a backpack, while Skye rummages around in the other pack and triumphantly yanks out a coil of sturdy climbing rope. “Ha,” she says. 

Jemma peers over the edge of the tower and clutches the wooden frame, polka-dotted mittens scrunching up under the force of her grip. “Are we certain that’s really the fastest way down, once we ring the bell?” Her voice is a little higher-pitched than usual.

This is the girl who once jumped out of an airplane without a parachute.

“I was more thinking we could tie the rope to the bell pull,” Skye says, breath puffing out in a fog.

“Oh,” Jemma says. “Ooh, yes, lovely, I do like your brain.”

“Speed it up,” says Ward.

Ringing the bell reminds Skye of breaking into an old country church in the middle of a hot Nebraskan summer. She'd signed the guestbook with her newly chosen name and slept on one of the hard wooden benches before moving on the next day, and she'd rung the bell as a sort of salute to her brand new life before running for it, suddenly afraid that someone would come looking. This time, she's bracketed by Jemma and Fitz, on either side, and the three of them tumble out of the church and into the woods with the last peal of the bell still echoing behind them. “Run for the bus and we’ll lock the doors behind you,” Coulson says. “We’ll be five minutes ahead. If all goes well we’ll have taken off by the time they realize we’re there.”

They run, boots crunching and squeaking through the snow. They’re slower in winter gear than they would be normally, and the air Skye inhales feels kind of like tiny knives when it goes down her throat. Goddamn _winter_. Skye always took great care to migrate south anytime the temperature dipped close to freezing. “Scarf up,” Jemma orders, a little muffled through her own. They reach the clearing and the bus in good time, and close the door on the icy air behind them. 

“Takeoff in five,” May says over the intercom, apparently already in the cockpit. The comm in Skye’s ear clicks off, connection severed by Coulson’s code entered into one of the computers now that the mission is done.

“Oh, thank god,” Fitz says, already divesting himself of his hat (“My _ushanka_ , Skye”) and shucking his scarf and coat and wind-pants in short order.

“Hey,” Jemma says, turning to smile at Skye. “D’you know what day it is?”

“For pity’s sake,” Fitz says, turning away hastily and heading out of the cargo area.

“Bracing alcohol available in the kitchen post-takeoff,” Ward says, using the intercom and his most pleasant tone of voice. It’s weird. Coulson says he’s been practicing his people skills.

“What day is it,” Skye says, as the plane starts to rumble beneath them. Jemma is still flushed under all her winter clothes, pink-cheeked and red-nosed. When Skye reaches out and takes off the blue monster hat, Jemma’s hair rises up in a static-y halo around her ears.

“The first of January,” Jemma says, stepping closer and taking Skye’s cold hand in her own equally chilly one. “As of twenty minutes ago. Or, well. Twenty minutes ago according to a time zone we visited last month.”

“Coolest celebration I’ve ever had,” Skye says, shamelessly.

“I did so enjoy ringing in the new year with you,” Jemma says, equally shameless and _totally awesome_. She hums something that might be _Auld Lang Syne_ and tugs Skye a little closer. “Will you be my midnight kiss?”

“Two minutes to takeoff,” May says over the intercom.

“Maybe we should do it _before_ the countdown ends,” Skye says, and kisses Jemma. It’s one of their weirder kisses, lips still a bit numb from the cold, both of them seeking the warmth in one another's mouths. Their bodies are separated by miles of down and wool and Skye thinks she's just a couple minutes away from overheating, and the floaty mess of Jemma’s hair sticks to Skye’s cheek and the fluffy parts of her scarf.

"One minute," May says. "Ladies, I need you to find your seats."

Jemma pulls away, presses one kiss to the corner of Skye's mouth, ruffles her hair up until it matches Jemma's in volume and static. "It's just going to keep turning into the new year for the next, oh, nine hours, or so," she says. "Let's celebrate again once we take off."

"You know I like a good party," Skye says.


End file.
